


A better son/daughter

by annamaymasters5319



Series: The Execution of All Things [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: And I'll get to that point in this series eventually, Bisexual Steve Harrington, I dont wanna be right, I mean, Idk about that tag its very misleading, If there is a better character example of big dick energy, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insomnia, M/M, No beta we die like mne, Pre-Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve Harrington Has PTSD, Steve Harrington Has a Big Dick, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Billy Hargrove, an absolute butchering of the italian language, but honestly, i just know its not everyones cuppa, if youre into that kind of thing, its barely there tbh, that's the plan anyway, this is a mess im a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:35:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25996861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annamaymasters5319/pseuds/annamaymasters5319
Summary: And sometimes when you're on, you're really fucking onAnd your friends they sing along and they love you.But the lows are so extreme that the good seems fucking cheapAnd it teases you for weeks in its absence.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: The Execution of All Things [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888147
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	A better son/daughter

**Author's Note:**

> I love Rilo Kylie and the album and songs referenced. and I'm trying to do some writing to get back in the game, but I also might just be tossing this into my shame hole like the rest of the fics I claim to love so much and subsequently abandon.

The shrill sound of the phone in his room sends him flailing across the floor, away from the foot of the bed where his back had been resting for the last few hours of the night. His heart is racing, lungs are tight at the flood of adrenaline and he can’t help but think if this was an attack he’d be dead already. Maybe not. His right hand is aching with how tight he’s gripping the nail bat. Lucky he didn’t take a nail to the leg with all the spazzing out he just did. That’s always messy. The phone rings for a third time and he snatches it off the receiver before taking a deep breath and glancing at the clock 4:13. Jesus.

“Harrington residence, this is Steve speaking.” It sounds like his mom but the voice is muffled and he closes his eyes in frustration before switching to his good ear. The voice is still a little hard to make out, but he knows it’s because she’s laying on a couch or bed or maybe the fucking floor of whatever house or hotel or goddamn _chalet_ she’s currently staying at.

“…but of course, I told her I couldn’t possibly make the trip to Tokyo and back in less than a week, so naturally my husband would also be unable to attend the conference-“

“Mama.”

“…and she had all of the bottles just lined up so beautifully, all the colors reflecting of the mirrors-“

“Mama!”

“…Stefano is that you? Mio bambino, cosa voui? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, mama. You called me, remember? It’s 4 am here, I have school today. What do you need?” He tried to keep the irritation from his voice, but it was getting harder every time she did this shit.

“Don’t talk to me that way Richard do you have any _idea_ cose che la mia famiglia faceva da generazioni, you dumb head fuck?”

He let her go off on him. It was probably cathartic or some shit. No way could she say all this to Dick’s face. Not without consequences.

Even with his eyes still closed and his thumb and forefinger pressed to the bridge of his nose, he couldn’t stop the sudden spring of tears from forming. It wasn’t the insults, or that she forgot which Harrington man she had called, or even how obviously fucked up she was.

She kept ranting about his shitty father and all the shitty things he put her through, and all Steve could picture was how she had looked at one of his little league games, years ago. She’d had these big sunglasses on and a pink blouse and she had looked like a supermodel that day. All olive skin and chocolate hair and bright red lips. She had looked so young, even to Steve, who had to have still been in grade school at the time. She was _still_ so young. Maybe 32. 33? His dad seems to like them that way. He couldn’t remember her sober though.

Never sober. He just felt so fucking sad for her all of a sudden. He missed that woman in the pink blouse desperately. But, he couldn’t stop the sick and sudden tentacle of feeling that the woman he misses so much is dead, has been dead, for years, and he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

“Mama.” It came out as a whisper, and he winced at how fragile it sounded. He cleared his throat. _Plant your feet_.

“Mama!” and, miracolo dei miracoli, the woman fell silent.

“Mama, I love you. Please, _please_ , stop calling me. I miss you so much sometimes but there is something inside both of us that is so fucking _broken_ and- and I can’t fucking _help_ you with this shit. I can’t. I have my own shit. So just- fucking get sober or, or have lo zio Giorgio _take care_ of Him like you keep threatening so we can both be done with this, this _bullshit_!”

He feels like he should be freaking out. He should be shaking, or crying, or beating the phone against the wall like an unhinged bad guy in an action film. But he doesn’t. His eyes aren’t even wet anymore. They hurt like a motherfucker, though. They feel like they could be bleeding with how tired he is.

He gently sets the phone down and shucks off his jeans, grimaces as he peels them down his thighs and rearranges himself. If pants get any tighter, he’s gonna end up shooting blanks. Wouldn’t be so bad, if he couldn’t have kids.

He pulls back the crisp sheets of his perfectly made bed and wonders if Yolanda has even noticed he barely sleeps in it anymore. Wonders if Yolanda is still the housekeeper here. He can’t remember the last time he saw her.

Oh right, the Snowball. She had given him a funny look when he passed her on his way out with all of his hair products. That was just a few days ago. Or last weekend. Whatever.

God, he was so fucking tired. The glow of the lights around the pool was slowly getting washed out by the grey of morning and maybe now his stupid brain would finally take the hint.

Good job Steve-brain, we survived another night in this comfy house with doors that lock and lights that turn on automatically you pussy and what the fuck is a nail bat going to really do when you’re home alone anyway and _shit_ -there it is, right there against the nightstand, see? Your fine dude.

You fucking killed demodogs and the kids are safe and you’ll pick up Dustin and Lucas in a couple hours and go to school and _get this shit done_. And maybe, if the stars align and you do well in class and you smile at Nancy and Johnathan like a real human person and you land a few shots at practice and you don’t stare at Hargrove’s perfect thighs and ass and eyes in the showers like a pervert; maybe, you’ll get some sleep tonight.


End file.
